












































































































CONSCIOUS 

SHORT-STORY 

TECHNIQUE 


BY 

DAVID RAFFELOGK 

Associate Editor of The Author & Journalist 


THE WRITER’S 
LIBRARY SERIES 



DENVER, COLORADO 
THE AUTHOR & JOURNALIST 

t 4 





f/)/ sir/3 

.JPj 


Copyright, 1924 
The Author & Journalist 


Printed in the United States of America 

} AUG 16 1924 

© Cl A 8 014 37 

I 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I THE PLACE OF TECHNIQUE. 9 

II THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 16 

III STORY SOURCES . 25 

IV DETERMINING THE ANGLE. 30 

V THE USE OF HUMAN INTEREST. 43 

VI SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATON.. 51 

VII FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION. 63 

VIII THE FINAL PUNCH. 74 

IX WRITING THE STORY. 81 





















CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY 
TECHNIQUE 








CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY 
TECHNIQUE 


CHAPTER I 


THE PLACE OF TECHNIQUE 


M OST persons, aiming to develop what they regard 
as their talent for writing, eagerly scan every 
book or course on the subject of fiction-writing that 
they can find; or, if blessed with a friend who is selling 
his output, they go to him for advice. 

It is only natural that one should wish to feel his 
way, in order to avoid wasting time and energy, by 
learning what others have done who have achieved 
success, so that he may perhaps do likewise. In creat¬ 
ing fiction, as in life, the common impulse is to conform 
to customary modes. 

But if a writer possess originality must he still write 
according to generally followed methods ? Is conform¬ 
ity an inexorable law in fiction-writing? 

It would seem so, for are not rapid action, suspense, 
plot and other devices regarded indispensable for the 
short-story, especially by most editors, instructors and 
successful fictionists? Yet another side presents itself; 
there are capable authors who will not conform to the 
established rules but whose stories are nevertheless 
highly rated by discriminating critics. 

[9] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


Instructors in short-story writing often find them¬ 
selves in a quandary when, after apparently convincing 
their students regarding certain requisites, such as the 
absolute necessity of plot, etc., a querulous pupil 
triumphantly proclaims, “But I read a story in a maga¬ 
zine that hadn’t any plot at all. If the story was no 
good, why did the editor buy it? And anyway, I 
thought it was very interesting; it seemed to me to be 
the best in the issue.’* 

“Ah,” responds the instructor, somewhat at bay, “ex¬ 
ceptions only prove the rule. Genius can rise above 
what the mediocre must follow.” 

But why must the average writer follow? Perhaps 
the professor will try to show how much better the 
author in question would have done had he followed 
the general method and supplied a plot for his story. 

After some such discussion by the professor, the 
thoughtful student may still be perplexed; he finds 
other “exceptions” in magazines. In fact such publica¬ 
tions as The Dial, Little Review, Broom, and others are 
full of them. If such stories are being written and 
printed, sometimes even paid for at high 'rates, why 
should not he write them too? This is a question to 
which the beginning writer deserves a serious answer. 

The teaching of technique may give the impression 
that the acquirement of it is necessary to make one a 
writer, and it predicates a dogmatic belief in a certain 
technique. But it is my conviction that the writer 
should learn not only the opinions of those who insist 
upon the value of a strict technique, but also the views 
of such as maintain that fiction is being robbed of orig¬ 
inality and beauty by too rigid observance of form. 

[10] 


THE PLACE OF TECHNIQUE 

From this conflict of opinion must arise the writer’s 
greatest help—the habit of thinking. One person may 
convince you that technical form is necessary; another 
could very likely show the opposite to be true. Both 
are right and both are wrong; even the balance between 
the two may be false. 

Determine what ability you have; learn whether you 
are able to write only stories technically devised; 
whether you prefer and are best able to write stories 
that flow naturally from the sincerity of your feeling, 
regardless of form; or whether the latter kind, when 
guided by a definite technical form, proves to be the 
best kind of story you can write. Whatever you de¬ 
termine proves the truth for you, and it is inexorable— * 
for you! 

Having determined to some degree the ability he 
possesses, one still has another question to decide: is 
he to train his talent for the production of a highly 
marketable variety, or shall he work to give expression 
to the sincerity of his feeling and for the development 
of his ability to full bloom, regardless of the market 
demand ? 

Jack London, David Graham Phillips and William 
Sidney Porter (O. Henry) used their extraordinary 
talents to write popular fiction that sold readily; other 
capable authors have preferred comparative obscurity 
and poverty rather than deliberately write anything that 
pandered to a popular taste. 

I cannot entirely agree with those who decry the 
popular interest in learning to write stories for which 
there is today such a great market demand. If one 
has purely commercial interests, there is no reason why 

[in 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

he should not try to prepare himself for the magazine- 
fiction business; but if one has any ability that fits him 
for more than mere mechanical concoction of plots, it 
seems a sacrilege for him to restrict his talent to rigidly 
conforming to popular or superficial ideas for the sake 
of earning larger pay for his work. The ideal of 
money-making in fiction-writing has been overempha¬ 
sized so that now many writers sneer at the literary 
artist who fails to get his stories published in magazines 
of great circulation. Consider financial returns from 
your writing, of course, but on the other hand regard 
the satisfaction of trying to write stories that will out¬ 
last a day because of the beauty and sincerity and 
truthfulness you may be able to give to them, disre¬ 
garding immediate marketability. Life has deeper 
meaning when one has tried to realize fully his intellec¬ 
tual capacity. 

Whatever kind of writing you have the ability for 
and decide to do, take advantage of every opportunity 
to develop yourself as far as possible. Technique has 
been presented in these first pages as a matter of less 
than supreme importance, and yet this is a book of 
short-story technique. Technical knowledge is valu¬ 
able. It is the mold into which one’s ideas and visions 
of life may be poured and is as necessary as the tech¬ 
nique of music is to the musician. It is only when it 
becomes purely mechanical and a certain form is dog¬ 
matically followed that technique seriously hampers 
the author’s expression of his ability. Art must be 
plastic; rigid forms are for the artisan. Technical 
devices are simply tools and are never essential to good 
writing, although the author of popular plot stories 

[ 12 ] 


THE PLACE OF TECHNIQUE 

may find them of surpassing value in constructing his 
fiction. 

Technique is of added importance to the author if 
he is fully aware of the part it plays and knows 
definitely its function. Nietzsche has propounded the 
great philosophy of conscious evolution for the human 
race. Through conscious development, he believed, it 
would be possible to produce a race of supermen. It 
has been found true that the broadening of an individ¬ 
ual’s consciousness is productive of great personal 
development, regardless of whether the theory as 
applied to the race be true or not. The writer profits 
in a twofold way by a greater consciousness — both 
personally and in his work. Nelson Antrim Crawford, 
writing of Keats, said that the great English poet wrote 
so masterfully because he was highly conscious of the 
technique of his medium and of his employment of it. 

In the following chapters it is my purpose to make 
the reader aware of certain important technical ele¬ 
ments that are of value to the writer of plot stories and 
of plotless as well. It is not the intention of the present 
writer to argue dogmatically the value of any one 
phase of technique, but to assist the reader in choosing 
what is best for himself. 

No discussion is included in this book of plot, the 
action-device, suspense and other fetishes of many 
present-day editors of popular magazines. In this book 
I do not want to emphasize the more mechanical ele¬ 
ments of technique, for often they hamper the expres¬ 
sion of simple, true-to-life stories. 

It has no doubt become apparent to the reader that 
there are two methods of writing stories; the one a 

[13] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


deliberate building according to a fairly rigid pre¬ 
scribed form, and the other a free expression of a nar¬ 
rative in the most effective manner, regardless of 
whether or not it fits in with any standard conventions 
of the short-story. 

The popular formula-stories, replete with action, in¬ 
terest-devices, and pandering to conventional notions, 
are today the most salable and are paid for at the 
highest rates. This type of fiction-writing is not espe¬ 
cially difficult to learn, for as Arlo Bates has said, any 
man with the smallest gifts, reasonable intelligence, and 
sufficient patience may learn to write marketable stuff 
and earn an honest livelihood. Irvin S. Cobb, Fannie 
Hurst, Hugh Wiley, and other short-story writers who 
cater to popular tastes are held up to emulation because 
of the great amount of money they make by writing. 

On the other hand, such authors as Wilbur Daniel 
Steele, Thomas Beer and others write superior stories 
that follow more or less the prevalent technical form. 
Literary excellence is not necessarily incompatible with 
definite technical standards. 

But stories written with sincere feeling, regardless of 
whether they are written in the “required” form, in¬ 
different to popular convictions, negligent of all con¬ 
ventions, have a greater chance of permanency because 
they may be as fluent as is life itself. And the author 
has the satisfaction of knowing that he wrote truth¬ 
fully and unhampered the thoughts which most deeply 
characterize himself. Such stories have a constructive 
influence, both upon the reader and upon the art of 
writing. The short-stories of Rebecca West, Sherwood 
Anderson and like authors are praised by the discrimin- 

[14] 


THE PLACE OF TECHNIQUE 

ating for having revealed some esoteric phase of life. 

The chapters which follow are not especially de¬ 
signed to help you make a choice between these two 
methods of writing, but their main purpose is to pre¬ 
sent a survey of the most important technical elements 
and to encourage clear thinking. Examples are taken 
from the works of writers of various types of stories, 
but no recommendations, no “do’s” or “don’ts” are in¬ 
sisted upon. If you practice conscious development, 
you will be able to choose clearly according to the 
mental and physical equipment with which nature has 
endowed you. 


CHAPTER II 


THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 

W HEN you pick up a magazine and begin reading 
a story, something, let us suppose, grips your 
attention and holds it, increasing your interest as you 
go on with the narrative. To you, as a reader, it is 
of little or no importance what alchemy or mechanics 
the author employs to bring about this desirable end; as 
an author, you find it of great moment to you. It is un¬ 
likely that you will be able to invent anything entirely 
new in short-story technique, as there has been no 
essential change there since the first story was written. 

If you are aware of other authors’ methods you may 
be able to give individual expression to something estab¬ 
lished, or at least you will be able to use effectively the 
same devices. 

You have doubtless read a large number of stories; 
have you discovered how the authors schemed to get 
your interest? Perhaps you have written a number of 
your own stories, a few at least. Are you aware of 
the exact method by which you worked to hold the 
prospective reader’s attention and gradually to increase 
his interest? 

Either you are preparing yourself consciously for 
writing or you are blindly plodding along. Either way 
may or may not gain you success; but if you know 
what you are doing, if you are conscious of each new 
thing you learn, you will write good stories, granted 


THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 

that you have the ability, and progress will come 
quickly. 

Begin at once to see with your mind. Advice and 
rules have two sides; accept neither completely until 
you have developed the capacity to understand this 
truth. 

It is not necessary to wonder inanely what is so fas¬ 
cinating about another’s story and what is, perhaps, 
dull about your own. The story in the magazine grips 
your attention; the style is attractive, a character is 
unusual, the setting is pleasing, or the first paragraphs 
create an atmosphere of reality. But there is something 
more: you read further than the introduction and 
ordinary attention increases to lively interest. 

Always there is the human struggle (or humanlike 
if the story is of animals). Soon style, characteriza¬ 
tion, setting give way to or are enhanced by the interest 
in the characters in conflict. 

In every story there is a situation, or the arrangement 
of elements which will clash and produce conflict, and 
from the struggle which ensues will result a conclusion 
or settlement of some kind. 

The experienced author is fully aware of the neces¬ 
sity of situation. It is not enough to have various ele¬ 
ments in a story that might produce struggle; they 
must at some time clash, and struggle is the inevitable 
result. When the situation is revealed, interest is 
vitalized by the pregnant promise of conflict. It is 
movement or action of some kind which gives meaning 
to characterization, description, everything. Pictures 
become reality when they are animated, there is no 

[173 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


life without conflict; human conflict must therefore be 
the basis of fiction. 

Become aware of the value of situation; begin to see 
life and fiction in terms of it. The study of situation 
in this chapter can have only one function, to make you 
conscious of the meaning of situation, its force and its 
general application. 

An example of situation may be taken from the 
familiar story, “Silas Marner.” There are many con¬ 
tributing elements to its plot, but after the story gets 
under way it is found that the situation confronting the 
main character is this: 

Silas Marner, who has adopted Eppie after he found 
her in his home, years later is faced with the fear that 
she will return to her father when he comes to claim 
her. Will she go to him, or remain with Silas ? * * 

The more intense the situation the more interested 
the reader will be in your story. Recall almost any 
melodramatic tale you have read and you will find that 
the situation was similar to this: Randolph, a trusted 
friend of the family, although in reality untrustworthy 
and a thief, is soon to be married to the pretty daughter. 
Will she discover his true character before it is too 
late? Here something is certain to happen, and what¬ 
ever it may be, it will be waited for with high-keyed 
interest by the reader. 

Situation in a plot story, relying as it does mainly 
upon physical action, often has the forceful interest 
of two passenger trains approaching each other on the 
same track and going at high speed. Something must 
happen. What is it to be? There are several answers. 
If the trains meet, tragedy will result—lovers parted, 

[18] 


THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 


children orphaned, perhaps famous men killed. We 
may have melodrama: The hero rushes to the switch, 
sends one train off on a siding, then, by quick thought 
and action, throws back the switch in time to let the 
other train dash by—saved! Or we may have comedy: 
A man sees the approaching trains, pulls off his red 
shirt and flags one train, then dashes off to stop the 
other. He imagines himself a hero, only to find that 
one of the trains had received orders to switch at a 
siding, which it had even then just done. 

However, no matter what tone you may give to the 
solution of this situation, it could not have been com¬ 
pletely avoided. Some answer had to be given. Test 
your story to see if you have a comparable situation— 
one demanding a solution and an issue that can not be 
slighted. If you have and your story is well written, 
you will have achieved sustained interest. That means 
half of your difficulties overcome. The situation need 
not always be as dynamic as the railroad trains exam¬ 
ple; even one with little physical action may be full 
of tension. * * * 

Following is an example of a story with a weak 
situation, taken from a manuscript written by a be¬ 
ginner. We see how flat it is. A young man is more 
interested in his studies than in people. His father 
wants him to get married and a third person supplies 
the girl. The young man refuses to marry, but his 
father finally persuades him, and in a ludicrous manner 
he proposes to the girl. At first she refuses him; then 
the boy’s ardor grows because he now desires what is 
denied him. Because of his renewed interest, the girl 
now accepts him. 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


There was a little struggle in the son’s weak opposi¬ 
tion, but the story was dull because there was no issue 
in which the reader was made vitally interested and for 
which he demanded a solution. 

However, draw the son as one who dislikes women 
because he thinks them weak creatures and subservient 
to men. Let the girl be urged on by her parents to 
accept the man. She learns of his attitude toward 
women and refuses him. The young man then falls 
in love with her, desiring her above anything else. 
Here we have a situation: Will she consent to his 
proposal now, or will she in turn believe that he is a 
man weak and servile to women and again refuse him ? 
This makes an interesting problem that, no matter how 
it is solved, will vitally affect the lives of two or more 
characters. * * * 

Another point concerning situations now confronts 
the author and demands clear thought. How shall the 
situation be presented ? Is there more than one method 
and if so which one is best? Although examples in 
answer to these questions are presented in this chapter, 
the final answer in each case rests with you. These 
are not laws given to you; they are merely methods 
that have been employed. Their value is to make you 
conscious of what has been done. 

It is not necessary that the situation be told imme¬ 
diately in your story; sometimes it does not come until 
near the end. But a well-written story will prepare 
for the situation by arousing interest in the characters 
taking part, in the theme involved, or in the setting or 
other contributing factors. 

[20] 


THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 

When the situation itself is not of unusual interest, 
it is often better to reveal it later. Perhaps you might 
get the reader interested in an odd character who is to 
be the hero, or have a strange setting which is destined 
to prove an important factor in the situation. In “The 
Judgement of Vulcan” (Harper's Magazine), by Lee 
Foster Hartman, the latter method of opening is used. 
Here a volcano, Muloa, is described and all through 
the story it smokes and belches fire, warning the reader 
of its potential power to solve the situation. The story 
tells of a young woman, Eleanor Stanleigh, who is to be 
married soon to a Mr. Joyce. The death of her hus¬ 
band, who deserted her, has never been satisfactorily 
established. Being a Catholic, she has not obtained a 
decree of divorce. Her husband is really alive and 
lives on the island where Muloa is located. The situa¬ 
tion is: Will he arrive now to prevent or break up the 
marriage? Muloa finally fulfills its terrible promise 
and solves the problem by killing the husband. 

Do not misunderstand that the situation is something 
that need be stated in your story in so many words. 
It should never protrude like the key that winds a 
walking doll. It may be implied in the opening para¬ 
graphs; it may be guessed after the story is well 
started; it may culminate near the end of your story; 
it may even be revealed near the end and left unsolved. 

If your story is one of tense action or emotion, it is 
well to make known the situation immediately, as is 
done in “The Signal Tower” (The Metropolitan), by 
Wadsworth Camp. (See Chapter IV for analysis of 
this story.) The problem here is: Joe becomes drunk 
and sets off to get revenge on Tolliver by outraging his 

[ 21 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


wife. The husband is a railroad telegrapher now on 
duty and there is imminent danger of a collision, so 
he dares not leave his work. Will he be able to prevent 
the accident and still save his wife? By knowing at 
once the problem in this story, the reader is held breath¬ 
less until it is finally answered in almost the last para¬ 
graph. 

In “The Stick-in-the-Muds” (Collier's Weekly), by 
Rupert Hughes, the situation is not revealed until quite 
late. The story gains its initial interest from the scene, 
which is laid near Shakespeare’s home along the Avon 
River, where an American business man is canoeing. 
He is reminded of a boyhood friend and then comes 
the story. It deals with a general problem, and after 
the thought is established the following situation is 
revealed: A young poet is the son of a practical and 
unsympathetic father who forces him to work. For 
the young man it is a struggle between ambition and 
environment. Which will triumph? 

The situation of “Ghitza” (The Dial), by Konrad 
Bercovici, is not known until near the end of the story. 
The interest is sustained to this point by the portrayal 
of an unsual character, Ghitza, a gypsy wrestler. He 
is matched against the strong man of another band, 
and the villagers bet all they possess, including their 
daughters, on Ghitza. Will he throw his opponent and 
win the girl he loves? 

Usually a solution to the situation is presented. There 
are some exceptions, but these are most often found in 
“trick” stories. One of this kind, with which most 
readers are no doubt familiar, is “The Lady or the 
Tiger,” by Frank R. Stockton. Here the general 

[ 22 ] 




THE IMPORTANCE OF SITUATION 

situation is early revealed; the particular one later. 
The two probable results are suggested, but the solu¬ 
tion is left for the reader. * * * 

From the foregoing study, we derive three important 
conclusions. First, it is necessary and vital to the 
story to have a situation. It provides the basis for 
conflict, or the movement of the story. The stronger 
and the more inevitable the action leading up to the 
situation, or that is involved in the situation, the more 
breathless and tense will the story be. 

Second, a careful study of situations suggests new 
plots and developments. As was shown in the railroad 
trains example, there are several possible solutions to 
most problems, and according to the tone used, they 
range from the tragic to the comic. If you have diffi¬ 
culty in working out plots, analyze the situations of 
several successful stories, noting the denouement in 
each case, and then work out different solutions. Per¬ 
haps seek for contrast. If the situation is answered 
tragically, try to find a farcical ending. You cannot 
always do this satisfactorily, but it is mighty good 
practice to try. 

Third, further observation made from the study of 
situation reveals that there are various treatments from 
which to choose for your story. If it is a character 
story with this element dominant, then it is well to 
withhold your situation until the reader is interested 
sufficiently in your hero to follow him in whatever he 
does. Tension in a strong plot story often is gained 
by telling the situation at the beginning as in “The Sig¬ 
nal Tower.” However, it is well at first to experiment 

[ 23 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


in order to determine which is the best place in your 
particular story to reveal the situation. 

From then on, however, no more time can be used 
in preparation, for the movement must be swift or 
direct in developing the dilemma your characters are 
in. An exception to this is made in the inverted-order 
story (a frequent type), in which for the first para¬ 
graphs the situation is plucked from a point chronologi¬ 
cally farther on and used to arouse the reader’s interest. 
Then the story goes back to a preceding time and grad¬ 
ually leads up to the situation of the opening para¬ 
graphs. 

After you have developed a good situation and 
decided on the method and manner of treating it, your 
story will most likely give you little trouble in the 
writing. However, something must be said about the 
choice of your situation. It is difficult to find one that 
is especially new or original, but you can couple even 
a hackneyed situation with a unique idea. There are 
but thirty-six dramatic situations, as one author has 
outlined them, but there are hundreds of applications, 
many of which perhaps have never yet been guessed. 

The searching, analyzing, and testing of situations 
needs to be a conscious process at first. When you have 
become thoroughly familiar with this most important 
part of your writing development and mastered its 
difficulties, you will not need to proceed so deliberately. 
A writer who knows what he is about, and is thought¬ 
fully aware of what he writes, is definitely on the road 
to success. 


[ 24 ] 


CHAPTER III 


STORY SOURCES 



concerning art and fiction. An overstatement, doubt¬ 
less, but some such radical precept is necessary to off¬ 
set an equally generalized maxim of a large number 
of present-day fictional advisors. 

These latter urge the plot-seeker invariably to turn 
to the newspapers and therein find adequate material 
for any kind of story. 

Many novices resort almost exclusively to the news¬ 
paper for their plot ideas, in the belief that they are 
drawing upon the actual source of story material, which 
therefore must be reliable. 

It is obvious that the author is hopelessly lost when 
he begins to substitute the journals for life itself. Even 
the practical “business” writer who builds plots me¬ 
chanically and searches every possible source for ma¬ 
terial, fares little better wandering through columns of 
trite, interest-exhausted stories. 

Newspapers unquestionably do supply some authors 
with good material for stories, but generally these 
writers have become aware of other and better sources 
and are able to discriminate intelligently. The news¬ 
paper is limited in its value and should be used as a last 
resort rather than as an ever-ready aid to lethargic 
imaginations. 


[ 25 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


To write of life, the author can go direct to its real 
source, for as Leonardo da Vinci declared, “the artist 
should be the son, not the grandson of nature.” 

What are the usual results of finding plot ideas in 
the newspapers? Most of them are trite, for either the 
facts become well known to the general public, or the 
authors who assiduously follow the sensational news 
columns for their study of life fall upon these items, 
swamping the editors with stories based on the same 
ideas, as hundreds of like-patterned hats are unloaded 
upon crowding women shoppers at a bargain sale. 

Great numbers of news items are repetitions of the 
same frequently occurring situations, involving only 
different names and localities. In the newspapers, these 
stories deal with actual people in whom a number of 
others of the locality are always interested. The novice, 
misled by specious advice, sometimes mistakes this 
purely local interest for general interest and weaves the 
incidents into a story that has almost no chance of 
success. 

Beware of untimeliness. As soon as a sensational 
news story fills the front pages of the journals, some¬ 
one remarks what a good subject for a novel or story 
it would make. Possibly so—should the author have 
written his imaginative story before the actual occur¬ 
rence! Would magazine readers or editors be inter¬ 
ested in a fictional rehash of any one of the sensational 
stories that make lurid the “yellow” press? Two or 
three popular magazines were printing serial stories 
dealing with life at Hollywood at the time of, or soon 
after, the sensational Arbuckle case; but editors of 
these magazines declared that the stories had been 

[ 26 ] 


STORY SOURCES 

purchased before Hollywood began to attract the atten¬ 
tion of the world’s scandal-lovers. 

Plot ideas need not be gathered from the newspapers, 
for every writer can find within himself first-hand 
plot germs that are generally superior to and more 
original than the average plot suggestions to be found 
in the newspapers. 

Do not make a mental crutch of the newspaper. The 
author can exploit himself, his friends, and all things 
with which he is acquainted to secure material that is 
interesting, stimulating and vital. 

Two kinds of writers are easily distinguishable— 
those wishing to create sincere stories reflective of and 
illuminating life, and authors who are in the business 
of devising any fiction for which there is a market 
demand. 

To the first type of writer, the world with life and its 
problems, provides his textbook. Whether he is able 
to learn well from this volume depends chiefly upon 
his ability to become conscious of what exists, both in 
the physical and mental world. Talent and thought 
must go hand in hand. 

But even the purely creative writer needs some form 
in which to give expression to his story. He may, and 
the author of plot stories will, find his own equipment 
better for inventing situations than what the daily press 
generally has to offer. 

The tools for conscious invention of plots are: Para¬ 
dox, Exaggeration, the Apparently Impossible, and the 
New Twist. These terms are given, not as something 
original—authors are always seeking plots that incor¬ 
porate these elements—but to suggest a feasible and 

[ 27 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


ever-new method of making use of them at first hand 
by consciously understanding the device. 

Following are plot germs suggested by nothing more 
than the key-word heading in each case. It is easy 
and stimulating to devise such story suggestions: 

Paradox 

A beautiful woman who wishes to be ugly. 

Strong man envies a weakling. 

Ambitious young man who refuses an advancement. 

A great fighter who won’t fight. 

An exquisitely beautiful home among negro shanties. 

Exaggeration 

A humorous Irishman who is king of an African 
tribe. 

A fabulous country where the national hymn is 
written in jazz music and popular songs are taught in 
the schools. 

A man of almost supernatural mental power who can 
exercise weird influence on others. 

A hundred clocks of various kinds, always ticking, 
affect the impressionable clocksmith. 

The Apparently Impossible 

A man is shot but does not appear to be injured. 

A prisoner escapes from a room in which there are 
no doors, windows, or openings of any kind. 

A large stone house is seen by several persons to 
vanish at times. 

The New Twist 

Man who sets out to succeed in business, beginning 
as a clerk, opens a school for salesmen when he fails. 

[ 28 ] 


STORY SOURCES 


Rivals for the same girl decide not to follow other 
rivals’ methods, but to help each other win the girl. 
She marries a third rival who urged his own suit. 

A shop that is haunted. 

With any of the foregoing plot germs to work on, 
the author need but use his ingenuity to write an in¬ 
teresting story, granted he has ability to write. 

To develop the puzzling plot germs suggested in 
this chapter, it is logical that the author should work 
them out according to the responses aroused in the 
prospective reader. The Paradox plot germs should 
answer the question, “Why?”—Exaggeration, “What 
is to come from this?”—the Apparently Impossible, 
“How?”—the New Twist should arouse certain expec¬ 
tations in order to gain a surprise by logically substitut¬ 
ing it for what is expected. The last example given 
under the fourth classification owes its place there to 
the fact that a usual story atmosphere, that of a haunted 
house, is applied to a shop. This device can be used 
effectively by transferring similar situations to unex¬ 
pected places, or by treating any old idea in a new 
way. 

The author has a prolific field—the entire world of 
thought and experience—to draw upon for material. 
He should get as much as possible at first hand from 
within himself. When the author turns to the printed 
page for plot germs, let it be to articles and books of 
informative character—travel, science, philosophy, and 
the like—where he may gain material that can be better 
molded with the stamp of his individuality. 


[29] 


CHAPTER IV 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 

T HERE is a story about a man who dreamed that 
he was five different persons at the same time. 
When one of them moved about or spoke, the others 
became motionless puppets; so lie had to jump quickly 
from one to another to animate all of them. 

A dream of this sort is, perhaps, an uncommon ex¬ 
perience, but almost any reader of popular fiction may 
have had a similar vicarious experience, due to the 
author’s misguided mechanics. 

Stories may be rescued from such defects by con¬ 
scious attention, while writing, to a very important 
principle of short-story technique. A story is usually 
more artistic and more effective when told as but one 
of the characters sees or experiences the incidents. So 
told, a story is said to have a single viewpoint or angle 
of narration. 

This is the result of a decision by the author to be 
only one of his characters; or, as when the first person 
is employed, the narrator. 

To maintain a single viewpoint you must not report 
anything that the hero does not know, see, or hear 
about. You must not desert the hero to investigate 
your other characters’ minds, for the hero could know 
what they are thinking only by what they express in 
words or actions, or by other responses. Thus you can 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 


tell what other characters seem to think, and yet keep 
the same angle of narration. 

The angle of narration gives to many novices and 
some experienced authors a great deal of difficulty, 
much of which is due to lack of thought. 

In the process of evolving a story—through con¬ 
scious evolution—it is most important, after you have 
devised your situation, to decide upon the best angle of 
narration to employ. 

In this book we shall consider only the single point 
of view, as it is one most difficult to understand and to 
keep unified. If you know how to employ the single 
viewpoint you will have no trouble with the other 
points, for he who consciously rejects the single point 
of view cannot well err in employing another. The 
writer, however, should become fully aware of the 
possibilities of the one angle of narration, so that he 
will not heedlessly break it or fail to employ it because 
of lack of understanding. 

Other viewpoints that may be employed are simply 
unrestricted single angles of narration. These, briefly, 
are the Omniscient viewpoint, or the all-seeing, all¬ 
knowing angle which explores many characters' minds 
and observes the actions of many characters; the Ex¬ 
ternal, or the all-seeing angle which observes the 
actions of many characters; the Varying, which is con¬ 
cerned principally with one character but observes 
others. The single viewpoint concentrates definitely 
upon what only one character sees, hears, and under¬ 
stands. 

When the beginner has difficulty in maintaining a 
single viewpoint, he will do well to write a story, for 

[31] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


practice, in the first person. Such stories are some¬ 
times considered rather difficult to sell, but the writing 
of them is a most important “finger exercise.” 

Stevenson’s “The Merry Men” begins: “It was a 
beautiful morning in the late July when I set forth on 
foot for the last time for Aros. * * * I had such 

breakfast as the little inn afforded. * * *” The 

reader knows that whatever is told in this story will be 
a part of the personal experience or knowledge of the 
narrator. It would be ridiculous, for example, for the 
story to continue somewhat as follows: “My simple 
meal finished, I was accosted by the waiter; his face 
was expressionless, but he was thinking that I was a 
fool to walk to Aros where unknown dangers awaited 
me. He said nothing of this to me, however; only, ‘Is 
there anything else, sir ?’ ” 

Unless the narrator were a consummate mind-reader, 
this would be an impossibility from the narrator’s view¬ 
point. Seldom, if ever, in first-person stories is such 
an error made; but in stories of the third person, it 
occurs frequently. The author in the latter case feels 
that he has more latitude and may, if he chooses, report 
something that the character he is following has not 
seen or heard. But often this is inartistic. 

Furthermore, it is likely to interrupt the smoothness 
of a story in which the single viewpoint has been main¬ 
tained, by jerking away suddenly to show a bit of 
another angle. Perhaps the author finds a single con¬ 
sistent angle of narration more difficult; but this tax 
upon his energy and skill will often produce a more 
finished piece of work. 

An admirable story of character, “Editha,” by Wil- 

[ 32 ] 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 


liam Dean Howells, in Harper's, is told from Editha’s 
angle, but it is marred by an unnecessary lapse from 
the single viewpoint. For the time being the reader is 
the young woman. He believes as she does—perhaps 
against his will—thinks as she does, and acts in the 
same manner. Now consider, after two-thirds of the 
story is read, how jarring it is, for two brief para¬ 
graphs, to have to be someone else! 

We read: 

“ ‘Don’t come, mother!’ Editha called, vanishing.” 

Then: 

“Mrs. Balcom remained to reproach her husband. ‘I 
don’t see much of anything to laugh at/ 

“ ‘Well, it’s catching * * *’ (Mr. Balcom ex¬ 

plains.) ‘I guess it won’t be much of a war, and I 
guess Gearson don’t think so either.’ * * *” 

This break in the angle of narration is unnecessary, 
for ten brief paragraphs later the same idea—that the 
war will not long continue—is given when Gearson 
tells it to Editha. It will often be found that there is 
little excuse for such digressions. 

In a novel or novelette, where the author is acting 
as an omniscient being, able to probe the minds of 
many, to flash from one character to another, and to do 
other tricks of magic and supernatural attainment, the 
strict unity of the single point of view may prove a 
handicap, but in the short-story it generally establishes 
its value by getting the reader more definitely into the 
spirit of the viewpoint character. 

A mystery yarn in a recent issue of a detective-story 

[33] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


magazine dealt with five or six characters, and the angle 
changed with every other paragraph. Reading the 
story was an experience very similar to the dream men¬ 
tioned at the beginning of this chapter. In the story 
the reader was called upon to be vicariously first the 
daughter in her home; then her lover, miles distant; 
now a tramp, bent upon harm to the girl; again the 
young woman; her father now, hurrying home, 
troubled with a premonition of evil; once more the 
daughter, playing the piano; now the tramp, stealing 
into the house; then the girl’s lover, thinking of her. 
And so it went—a nightmare of being half a dozen 
persons in bewildering succession. 

This story would have been incomparably more in¬ 
teresting and effective had the one angle of narration 
been maintained. Told from the girl’s viewpoint—or 
perhaps better, the father’s—all of the necessary action 
could have been included, and instead of weakening the 
tension, it would have greatly increased it. 

A limited viewpoint may be necessary for many 
reasons. A careful understanding of its purposes will 
show that it aids in securing unity and cohesion, and 
helps to create interest and maintain suspense. The 
single angle of narration does not necessarily do all 
these things for every story, but it assists in accom¬ 
plishing at least one of them. 

Especially in a story of many characters does the 
single viewpoint make for unity and cohesion. When 
the author decides, for the space of his story, to be one 
character and no other, he is following one road, and 
is not so likely to wander off into bypaths that will 
destroy the single purposefulness requisite in a short- 

[34] 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 


story. The mystery story discussed in a foregoing 
paragraph would have gained in cohesion by the em¬ 
ployment of one angle of narration, thus tying together 
the bits of stories two or three paragraphs long. 

Interest is enhanced by the technicality, especially in 
character and psychological stories, for the reader’s 
attention is directed upon one person. In this type of 
story it becomes annoying if the reader is switched off 
to a new viewpoint character. The single angle is 
vital to the interest of the mood story, for any change 
will injure the feeling or tone, and may destroy it. 

The novice writer often errs in believing that by the 
maintaining one angle of narration suspense is en¬ 
dangered. This may be true of longer stories, but the 
opposite generally obtains in a short-story where in¬ 
stead of suspense being weakened it is often increased. 

A well-written story, “The Three Telegrams/’ by 
Esther Storm, appearing in The Ladies' Home Journal, 
made use of this device by keeping the viewpoint the 
same as Claire Rene’s. The eight-year-old girl’s 
brothers are away to war, and her grandmother is ill. 
One by one the girl receives three telegrams from the 
war department; she is afraid of them, and though she 
is not able to read them herself, she does not show them 
to anyone. The story is not melodramatic, but what¬ 
ever suspense it has is maintained by consistently keep¬ 
ing the angle of narration Claire’s. The story’s style 
and characterization contribute, but these would not 
have been able to keep up the suspense had, for exam¬ 
ple, Jacques, one of the characters, said to himself, 
“Poor little girl. Little she knows that her brothers 
will never come back.” It is by continually seeing and 

[35] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


feeling the events as Claire does that the reader is 
urged on to the end. 

In The Red Book, a story by Edward Mott Woolley, 
“The Keys to Ausable,” is told from the angle of 
Jimmy Hazelton, but a break is made to tell of an inci¬ 
dent between Bob and Agnes, which results in antagon¬ 
izing Hiram Clark, who sets up a rival automobile 
agency. The author here probably felt that it was 
better to break the angle, permitting the reader thus to 
see the episode, rather than to preserve the single view¬ 
point and have Bob tell Jimmy what took place. 

The change is not necessarily an error, but the story 
would have earned a better unity and more artistic 
whole had the break not been made. This is an incident 
in point where the author is called upon to think. He 
may write thoughtlessly, or he may be constantly aware 
of what he is penning and thus escape falling into pits 
that his reason would protect him from. 

The author should give conscious attention to avoid 
making small changes that add nothing by varying the 
viewpoint. Olive Wadsley wrote her “Diamonds and 
Roses,” in Saucy Stories, from Billy’s angle, yet 
allowed herself such a lapse as the following: 

“In point of fact, the attendant paid jolly little heed 
to Billy at all.” 

“Tine looking boy; who is he?’ a man asked a 
friend.” 

It is obvious, of course, that Billy did not know what 
these people said or thought of him, so comment such 

[36] 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 

as this could have been omitted in the interest of strict 
unity. 

I have no desire to quibble about insignificant excep¬ 
tions to a single viewpoint if the author makes them 
knowingly, aware of some value to be gained thereby. 

Another single point of view that may be employed 
is that of a third person who has nothing to do with 
the dramatic action, being merely a reporter or narra¬ 
tor. Many of the “once upon a time’ , fairy tales are of 
such a type. By the use of this viewpoint, the reader 
is made to feel an easy familiarity with the story-teller, 
as if he were sitting nearby, talking with him. 

“The Life of Five Points,” by Edna Clare Bryner 
(The Dial) is a story told from a single collective 
angle. It is a story of a town in the woods, such as 
might be told by a historian who saw deeper than the 
building and rebuilding of a city; who saw the pathos 
and foibles of human beings in a large, inclusive way. 
This story has for a plot the persistent struggle of 
humanity, handicapped or aided by its own attributes, 
against the forces of nature. The viewpoint employed 
—a collective one of the citizens—is not ordinarily used, 
and is worthy of careful study. 

Occasionally certain viewpoints are inadvisable. It 
is clear that the Sherlock Holmes tales could not well 
be told from the detective’s viewpoint; but the author 
should try to avoid the “Dr. Watson” angle in such 
stories as being hackneyed. Mystery stories, and in 
general those that depend upon unknown or uncanny 
elements, and those based upon misunderstanding, 
should not as a rule be told from the viewpoints of 

[ 37 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


characters who would be in a position throughout to 
reveal the answers to the difficulties. 

Two viewpoints are finding disfavor with editors at 
present; that of the detective story told by the stupid 
friend of the great sleuth, and the third-person story 
that breaks off after the first few paragraphs, to con¬ 
tinue as a narration in the first person—or the story 
within a story. 

Another way of telling a story, now generally 
frowned upon, is that in which the author obtrudes 
himself. Ivan Turgenev, the Russian writer, does this 
several times in his excellent story, “Mumu,” as, “But 
before reporting their conversation to the reader, we 
consider it not out of place to relate in a few words 
* *” And again, “The reader will now readily un¬ 

derstand the perturbation of mind that overtook the 
steward Gavrila. * * *” The story is otherwise 

told in the third person, impersonally, and mostly from 
the viewpoint of Gerasim, a mighty servant. 

When the author consciously understands the prin¬ 
ciple of the single angle of narration, he is then con¬ 
fronted with the problem of choosing which angle to 
employ. 

Again thought—not daydreaming and seldom “intui¬ 
tion”—is necessary. If you know exactly zvhy you 
make your choice, you will not slight the best angle for 
one you imagine to be good. The success of a story 
depends upon many things. 

The writer must choose for himself; he should know 
which character will best develop his idea and situation. 
And, of course, he should be guided partly by the 
character he understands best. Very often what makes 

[38] 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 


a story appropriate for a woman’s magazine is that it 
is told from the angle of a woman character; told 
from a man’s angle, the same story may be not at all 
suitable. 

To illustrate the effect of different viewpoints, the 
following study is given of “The Signal Tower.” 

The story is written from Tolliver’s angle, and we 
see him trying to reassure Sally, his wife, against her 
fear of being alone in their remote home, far from 
the railroad station where he works. Joe, who with 
Tolliver keeps the signal station, was formerly a 
boarder at their home, but because of his infatuation 
for Sally, was told to leave. The husband sends their 
son home with his revolver, which he had kept at the 
office. Joe is drunk and tells Tolliver, who relieves him 
at the telegraph instrument, that he is going to see 
Sally. There is imminent danger of a wreck, so per¬ 
sonal troubles must wait. All during his nerve-straining 
hours of work, is the fear of what is happening at 
home. Joe does not relieve him at the specified time, 
and though this increases his suspicions and misery, 
the lives of a trainload of passengers are dependent 
upon his remaining at work. 

This viewpoint ekes out every drop of suspense, for 
Tolliver can only guess, and he imagines the worst of 
what is happening at home. When his wife later 
drags herself to him, his fears seem to have been 
realized. But Sally confesses that she killed Joe in 
self-defense, and he is satisfied. 

Had the story been told from the wife’s angle, the 
development would have been somewhat as follows: 
Sally’s fear of Joe seems to be unfounded, for it is 

[39] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


nearly time for her husband to return. But now Joe 
forces his way into the house. He is drunk and her 
little son shrinks away from him. Sally tries to gain 
time, for surely Joe will not fail to return to his duty. 
But her hope is lost. She wonders why Tolliver does 
not return, for he must know that something is wrong 
at home when Joe fails to come. For a little while she 
hates him who holds duty higher than her honor. Joe 
is making for her now. She dreads to kill a man, espe¬ 
cially as she believes that her husband will then hate 
her; but she must choose, and her gun flashes. 

The story might have been told from Joe's angle. He 
is enraged that the Tollivers should deny him their 
home because Sally is so pretty that he fell in love with 
her. He swears revenge, and liquor strengthens his 
determination. With devilish cunning he realizes that 
today is a most opportune time, for he knows Tolliver’s 
loyalty to duty. There is danger of a wreck, so he 
will have his and Tolliver’s time for revenge. Drunk- 
enly, he reels toward the remote home. Sally is alone 
with her small son. Joe feels that he has plenty of 
time; let her fear him awhile. He is surprised to find 
that she has a revolver; but she will be afraid to use 
it. She is only a woman. He laughs at her threat, 
plunges toward her, and is about to grab her, when 
the revolver crashes, and he stares in drunken wonder 
at the flash, then falls to the floor. This point of view 
is sometimes objected to, for the viewpoint character 
dies and so, of course, his story could not naturally be 
told from his viewpoint. 

Finally, the story could have been told from the boy’s 
viewpoint. Without realizing the significance and the 

[40] 


DETERMINING THE ANGLE 


danger implied by the weapon, the boy carries home 
the revolver his father intrusts to him. Vaguely he 
knows that his mother wants to protect herself with 
this heavy gun, and he feels that some of the respon¬ 
sibility rests upon himself. He watches his mother 
place the weapon on a shelf, and busies himself by 
telling her what a brave person he is and how he would 
protect her from giants and dragons. Then the door 
is pushed open and Joe enters. The boy is frightened, 
but he remembers his boasting. He tells the man to 
go, but is pushed aside. The boy recalls his fairy 
tales and wonders what he can do against this big man. 
Joe is frightening his mother. He does not know 
whether to run for his father or not; then he remem¬ 
bers the revolver on the shelf, climbs upon a chair to 
get it, and gives it to his mother just in time for her 
to use the weapon to protect herself from the drunken 
man. 

The author must choose the viewpoint he is best able 
to handle, or the one that creates the greatest interest 
and tension. Tolliver’s is, no doubt, the most effective 
here. Also, by not showing the actual scene in which 
a woman kills a man, the story finds greater favor with 
the editors, who are inclined to shun “unpleasant” 
stories. Wadsworth Camp is an experienced author 
and perhaps knew at once which angle to employ, but 
I am sure that he did not make his choice by some 
happy accident. 

Consciously apply yourself, then, while planning a 
story, to choose the most effective angle of narration. 
With the same clearness of thought, follow throughout 
your story a single viewpoint, if you have determined 

[41] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


that strict unity in the particular narrative is best, not 
because some rule says it is, or because this chapter 
has stressed this angle, or even because one-viewpoint 
stories are supposed to be more salable; but make your 
choice because you have decided that it is necessary 
and vital. 


CHAPTER V 


THE USE OF HUMAN INTEREST 

W HEN George M. Cohan found that one of his 
plays was not arousing sustained interest in the 
audience, he introduced into the cast an American flag- 
waving character. This interest-arousing device has 
become proverbial. What is the psychology of its 
appeal ? 

“Patriotism” is not a sufficient explanation. Back of 
that is a fundamental emotion, which is found in some 
form and developed to a greater or lesser degree in 
each of us. A national flag dramatically introduced in 
a play forces an instantaneous emotional reaction, not 
the product of thought but of conventional training, 
sustained by the feeling of pride, loyalty, or love of 
country. 

It is well for the writer to know that it is through the 
emotions that people are united in a common relation¬ 
ship, whatever the locality or age. And as emotion 
plays a highly important part in all stories, its place 
should be consciously understood. 

Emotional effection is produced both by the author’s 
choice of w r ords and by the actions of his characters. 
Whether the feeling will be of a superficial character 
or of a deeper nature depends upon the author’s ability 
to reach his reader’s emotions through his intelligence. 
To arouse an emotion based upon the reader’s experi¬ 
ence, intelligence, and feeling is the aim of the most 

[43] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


capable authors. It is not enough merely to make the 
reader feel sorry for, or lend his immediate sympathy 
to, a beggar who is being beaten, a wife who has been 
deserted, or a mother whose children have spurned her, 
but these authors try to make the reader understand the 
situation in each case, so that emotion will be awakened 
from the complex causes of real life. 

Most of the popular-magazine editors, however, do 
not demand this difficult realistic manner of arousing 
emotions. Although sentimentality is sometimes 
frowned upon, they generally ask for little more than 
superficial emotional reactions. Thus the arousing of 
the reader’s feelings often becomes merely a scheme to 
intensify interest. This sort of emotional interest is 
called “human interest,” and the term will be used in 
this book to designate the emotional actions of the 
characters purposely planned to arouse the reader’s 
instinctive or sentimental feeling. 

Human interest may be compared to a physiological 
reflex action. For example, when a person is unex¬ 
pectedly jabbed with a pin, he immediately responds 
by some physical reaction. This response occurs with¬ 
out a command from the brain. And so is human 
interest a response without intellectual interference. 

The newspapers recently carried a story about a 
page who, answering a telephone call, said to the caller, 
“Hold the line, Old Bean.” He later learned that he 
had been speaking to the king. Shortly afterward, the 
page was called to the palace. But, the king was 
evidently pleased with the boy’s unintentional dis¬ 
respect, for he rewarded him with one hundred peseta. 

This story has human interest. The appeal is purely 

[44] 


THE USE OF HUMAN INTEREST 


emotional and of an elementary nature. Most readers 
would be inclined to say, “Oh, the king- was human 
after all. He liked being addressed as a common man. 
He was a good king.” 

Intellectual consideration of this incident may not 
substantiate such a conclusion. And the same story 
might be told so that the element of human interest 
would be lacking. The anecdote, related by a psy¬ 
chologist who should explain the underlying reasons 
for the king’s generosity, would probably dispel the 
reader’s feeling of direct kinship with the characters. 

Why the human-interest device should be employed 
is a question that may well be asked. Human interest 
gives the story an aura of familiarity, and hence of 
truthfulness, for it endows the characters with ele¬ 
mental feelings that are in common with our own and 
belong to every day’s experience. Also, as above shown, 
it quickly arouses the reader’s emotions. Emotion is 
the strongest agent for holding the reader’s attention 
and keeping him interested in the narrative. A story’s 
principal if not sole purpose is to interest; any device 
which can be employed to serve this end is valuable; 
but its use should be based upon conscious selection. 

When the human-interest device should be employed 
is an equally important question. The answer must de¬ 
pend upon you. If you are interested in, or qualified 
only for writing simple everyday stories, the sort of 
fiction that appeals to the popular and family maga¬ 
zines, use human interest freely, understanding it* If 
you want to write stories that go below the surface of 
life, human interest will most likely be out of place 

[45] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


unless judiciously employed to substantiate an intellec¬ 
tual conviction. 

How two authors may work with similar material 
and one write a human-interest story while the other 
does not, is shown in the analysis which follows: 

John M. Siddall, the late editor of The American 
Magazine, selected “The Terrible Charge Against Jeff 
Potter/’ by Samuel A. Derieux, as the story best typify¬ 
ing the ideals of his magazine of any appearing in 
The American during 1920. The story tells of Jeff, 
an aged man, shiftless aqcording to the opinion of some, 
but an extremely lovable man to most. At the outset 
of the story Jeff is abused unwarrantably; later, he is 
tried for a serious crime which the reader knows he did 
not commit. Throughout the story he is shown to be 
a worthy man whom children and women adore for his 
kindness to them. Jeff is vindicated. The concluding 
paragraph of the story is charged with human interest: 

“How many people old Jeff shook hands with that 
afternoon, he never knew. He did know though that 
Burton Evans was the first among them; that Mrs. 
Carson, who came next, was crying; that the strong 
hands of Bill Carson and Squire Kirby almost crushed 
his own frailer hand; and that off yonder, at a table 
below the clerk’s desk, a prim old lawyer in a long 
black coat had picked up a carved Indian and was pre¬ 
senting it to a little girl in a blue dress, with an old- 
fashioned bow strange to see.” 

In this story the reader is made to sympathize with 
Jeff Potter through ordinary, everyday emotions, such 


THE USE OF HUMAN INTEREST 


as love of children, kindness to animals, and a broad 
brotherhood of man. The reader's interest is solicited, 
but his intelligence is not called upon to substantiate his 
emotion. There is no gushing emotion, only homespun 
kindness, which attribute of our grandfathers is yet 
held up as a virtue to most of us. 

Another story based upon an aged, kindly character, 
who finds brotherhood in all men, is “Brothers" (The 
Bookman), by Sherwood Anderson. It is a better story 
than the first, but it is without human interest. 

This does not mean that the story makes no definite 
human appeal; it is a very human story. But it lacks 
the device of human interest, for its appeal is not of 
the “reflex" emotional type. Sympathy for the old 
man of the story is won through an intellectual under¬ 
standing of the character; emotion is awakened through 
a more complex reaction than is made by the human- 
interest type of story. 

The human-interest story, however, continues to 
make the strongest popular appeal, attribute the fact to 
what you will. Editors are of course unequally in¬ 
fluenced. Harford Powell, Jr., editor of Collier's, said, 
in telling of the kinds of stories he prefers, that the 
enduring themes for short-stories are the enduring 
themes in life itself—the old copybook virtues, like self- 
sacrifice, courage, generosity, resourcefulness and faith. 

When the author employs these “copybook virtues" 
so that he arouses the reader's ready and unqualified 
emotion, he achieves human interest. 

William MacLeod Raine employs human-interest 
devices very skillfully in “Tangled Trails." This is a 
mystery story with the setting for the first chapter a 

[471 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


business office. The reader’s sympathy is immediately 
won for a young woman who has been wronged by 
her employer. This has a “sure-fire” appeal. It 
wakens chivalry without the assistance of prolonged 
cogitations. The novel might have been opened with 
the interesting rodeo scene described later, but by mak¬ 
ing a human-interest appeal at the start it won the 
reader’s sympathy at once. Where there is a wrong 
to be righted, there is no question of sides to be taken. 

Human interest selects some attribute that everyone 
possesses and presents only one view; it does not en¬ 
courage thought—only immediate acceptance of the 
one facet presented. As in the story of the king and 
the page, it seems to reveal that we are all alike and 
that the whole world is kin. 

In “The Idyl of Red Gulch,” Bret Harte made tell¬ 
ing use of human interest. The story deals with a lonely 
schoolteacher who begins a friendship with the town 
drunkard. Later she is asked by an unmarried mother 
to take her son to raise respectably. The schoolteacher 
learns that the drunkard, for whom she begins to feel 
an interest bordering on love, is the father of the boy. 
The scene in which the mother begs that her boy be 
given a chance at decency wipes out the respective 
individualities of the characters concerned and the 
reader is face to face with the universal emotion of all 
animal kind—mother love. Bret Harte put the climax 
of his story on the simplest emotional plane, and the 
result is intense human-interest appeal. 

Human interest is bound up in heart-throbs. It is 
found in the “never-darken-my-door-again” scene of 
the old melodramas, in which the father refuses the 

[ 48 ] 


THE USE OF HUMAN INTEREST 


shelter of his home to his erring but repentant daughter. 
As primitive hearts always beat to the same rhythm, 
the author writing for the magazines which appeal to 
the masses does well to make use of this universal 
principle. Self-sacrifice, mother love, kindness, are 
always certain of their appeal to all but the skeptical 
and the highly sophisticated. An author employing 
human interest can lay his scenes in California, Alaska, 
Africa, or Mars, and create stories of equally wide 
appeal. 

Moving pictures are a good indication of the effec¬ 
tiveness of human interest. They have as representa¬ 
tive an audience as the popular magazines; and what 
is true of them is largely true of the short-story. The 
observer will find that spectacular pictures of the types 
chiefly notable for involving tremendous expense sel¬ 
dom attain the popularity or contain the deep appeal of 
photodramas telling simple stories which drive straight 
for the basic emotions of the spectator, as in “Over the 
Hill,” “The Old Nest,” and “Way Down East ” 

How to make use of the device of human interest 
is a problem that the writer must work out very largely 
for himself. When viewing motion pictures, and in 
his everyday experiences, he should try to observe what 
acts arouse his emotions most readily, what foibles or 
deeds of men most quickly bring tears or laughter. 

By thus becoming aware of emotional effects in life 
and in fiction, the writer is well equipped. But do not 
wait until you have a story to write before beginning to 
search for incidents that will help you; observe intelli¬ 
gently now so that you will be able to use human inter- 

[ 49 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


est convincingly when you decide upon its necessity 
or value for your story. 

As already shown in this chapter, the device may be 
employed in a variety of ways. It may be used to 
arouse the reader's interest at the opening of a story, as 
in “Tangled Trails. ,, Again, the interest may be of a 
complex or intellectual nature until a crisis or the cli¬ 
max, when the appeal may be made through some 
powerful basic emotion, as in “The Idyl of Red Gulch.” 
Or, the story may deal with kindly human emotions 
throughout, as in “The Terrible Charge Against Jeff 
Potter.” 

The device should, of course, be employed judic¬ 
iously. An overdose of human-interest appeal may 
make a story too saccharine or sentimental. Too much 
sugar will spoil the best cup of coffee. 


[SO] 



CHAPTER VI 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 

W E are all egoists. There is no truth but my 
truth. No world but my world. I am I! Thus 
said Max Stirner, the greatest of egoistic philosophers; 
and so may the fictional adviser say to your characters, 
“You are you!” No two peas in a pod are precisely 
alike, no two persons see the same shade of blue, though 
they look at the same cerulean sky. 

Two psychological facts regarding human nature 
should be understood by the fiction-writer. First, basic¬ 
ally no man is cast in a wholly different mold from that 
of his fellow beings; in most respects he is a pattern 
of hundreds of others of the same type, and only men 
like Napoleon, Nero, Lincoln, Nietzsche and St. Paul 
individualize some phase of the race's fundamental 
qualities, until they stand alone, geniuses of the ego. 
Second, each individual of every type varies in some 
degree. His reactions to stimuli are different from 
those of a twin brother who has been reared in the 
same environment and received the same training; his 
thoughts and mannerisms vary perceptibly, though per¬ 
haps only by a shade. 

The novice writer unlearned in psychology, psycho¬ 
analysis, and kindred sciences that reveal the workings 
of the human mechanism, will do well to avoid writing 
about supermen, confining himself to learning the 

[51] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


simple differences that make distinguishable to the 
ordinary man one person from another. 

The art of characterization requires conscious under¬ 
standing. Every day we come in contact with persons 
who differ from one another; always we have ourselves 
to reveal to us how one individual differs in so many 
ways from others we know. Why is it then that the 
author frequently fails to differentiate his story people 
—that he falls into such “characterization” as this: 

“She was dressed in black, and her face was very 
pale, topped by very black hair.” 

Chiefly, it may be because he is not aware of the 
methods of characterization. No one who realized that 
characterization means differentiation would write the 
foregoing description. He might as well say, “I bought 
a ring with a stone in it,” and mean thereby to indicate 
that he purchased a carved white-gold ring set with a 
two-carat yellow diamond. 

The reader is interested in story people not only 
because of what they do, but also because a well-written 
story makes vivid such men and women as he often 
sees but lacks acquaintance or insight for understand¬ 
ing. 

Much of Henry James’ art lies in his power to dif¬ 
ferentiate his characters. He was no doubt highly 
conscious of the technique of characterization, and 
when he wrote of the pale-faced woman dressed in 
black he made her stand out from every other pale 
woman similarly clothed. In “The Private Life” he 
thus describes her: 

“I had originally been rather afraid of her, thinking 

[52] 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 

her, with her stiff silences and the extreme blackness of 
almost everything that made up her person, somewhat 
hard, even saturnine. Her paleness seemed slightly 
gray, and her glossy black hair metallic, like the 
brooches and bands and combs with which it was in- 
veterately adorned. She was perpetually in mourning.” 

Modern writers seldom give a photographic descrip¬ 
tion of a character—that is, present in one paragraph 
a complete portrayal and have done with picturization. 
Often the picture is not completed until well along in 
the story. For example, the description of the pale, 
dark-haired woman may be given in the course of 
several paragraphs, with perhaps a hundred words or 
more between each bit, as follows: 

“ * */ she said, as darkly as the extreme black¬ 

ness of almost everything that made up her person. 

“The silence of the Alps seemed accentuated by her 
stiff silences, and I was rather afraid of her, thinking 
her somewhat hard, even a little saturnine. 

“As I greeted her this morning I noticed that her 
paleness seemed slightly gray. 

“As she came in for dinner her glossy black hair im¬ 
pressed me as being metallic, like the brooches and 
bands and combs with which it was inveterately 
adorned.” 

Thus, bit by bit her appearance and a suggestion of 
her mental qualities would be built up. However, the 
writer should not suppose that characterization is ac¬ 
complished only by giving a word-picture of the person 

[53] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

in question. This might suffice in disposing of a minor 
character, but the principal actors in a story are made 
to live by a more complex method. From the follow¬ 
ing example it becomes evident why the author cannot 
feel that he has satisfactorily created a character when 
he has described him. An author may say of his hero: 
“He was a calm professorial gentleman whose diction 
was as precise and dignified as his manner,” while 
throughout the story the author unwittingly allows the 
reader to see the man in an entirely different way— 
due to the author’s failure to co-ordinate the character’s 
actions and dialogue with his description—by such pass¬ 
ages as this: 

“He punched the arm of the stranger next to him at 
the theater, and said in a loud voice, ‘My, isn’t it tough 
how things will happen ?’ ” 

The writer who has thought about his characters and 
knows them will not fail to make them consistent in 
every way. Characterization, as already suggested, is 
brought about in other ways besides that of a mere 
statement by the author. Just as, in real life, we form 
our impressions of people not alone by appearances, in 
fiction we get a composite understanding of the char¬ 
acters through dialogue, actions and mental equip¬ 
ment. James Joyce has made a large number of 
characters vivid to the reader in his “Portrait of the 
Artist as a Young Man,” by relating throughout the 
book only the thoughts of the hero in the manner that 
thoughts run through the mind of such a one. 

The more important methods by which characteriza¬ 
tion is effected are reviewed in the following para¬ 
graphs : 


[ 54 ] 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 

Dialogue should be differentiated so as to reveal the 
character of the participant who is speaking. This is 
done in a more subtle way than by employing “trick” 
words, such as certain slang phrases, or by dropping 
the “g” of “-ing” endings, or even by repetition of 
certain stock words, as “Well, well!” When Markheim 
speaks, in Stevenson’s story of that name, the reader 
knows who is speaking, because he puts an emotion into 
the words that no one else would. Consider how various 
fictional characters might say, “I ask you for a Christ¬ 
mas present and you give me a mirror. What do you 
mean by that?” and then observe how Markheim de¬ 
clares himself: 

“I ask you for a Christmas present, and you give me 
this—this damned reminder of years and sins and 
follies—this hand conscience. Did you mean it ? Had 
you a thought in your mind? Tell me.” 

Mental qualities are indicative of character, especially 
in a subjective story where thoughts of the characters 
are given. The dialogue may be commonplace, whereas 
the mental processes may be highly individual. In the 
case of a colorless sort of man a few words as to his 
subjective qualities may at once differentiate him, as in 
the following quotation from “The Visits,” by Henry 
James: 

“He had a mind like a large full milk-pan and his 
wit was as thick as cream.” 

An even more subtle delineation, by revealing the 
character’s thoughts, is accomplished in Charles J. 
Finger’s story, “The Lizard God” (in All's Well). Here 
a professor and curator of a museum is the narrator. 

[55] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


No description of him is given, but the reader is made 
to see and understand the man perfectly from such 
passages as this, which is a transcription of the man’s 
thoughts. 

“His argument, of course, was absurd, and at the 
moment I had no answer ready, though since I have 
thought of the thing I should have said.” 

Here another means of characterization enters in— 
occupation. By knowing that the man is a professor 
the reader learns something definite of his nature— 
just as we should expect a grave-digger or a public 
executioner to have peculiarities different from those 
of other men. 

A peculiarity, whether of thought or action, is always 
a good means of differentiation, and the writer has but 
to study the people with whom he comes in contact to 
learn of countless mannerisms, obsessions, and idio¬ 
syncrasies. Sherwood Anderson created a very vivid 
character whose eccentricity serves as a medium for 
telling his story, “Brothers.” Here is a description of 
his obsession: 

“He has told me of men and women who were his 
brothers and sisters, his cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers- 
in-law. The notion has possessed him. He cannot draw 
close to people near at hand so he gets hold of a name 
out of the newspapers, and his mind plays with it.” 

A character can be made to escape a colorless classi¬ 
fication by his dress. Witness Strindberg’s “His clothes 
fit him like the bark of a tree.” Authors interested in 
pseudoscientific studies can seriously or facetiously use 

[56] 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 


the following subjects to reveal character: auras, 
phrenology, graphology, palmistry. The student of the 
“complexes,” etc., of psychoanalysis may use dream 
symbols and other subconscious materials to reveal the 
subtle forces that determine and differentiate every 
man’s character. Sherwood Anderson’s unusual story, 
“The Other Woman” (The Little Review), deals with 
the psychological situation of a man who is “Freudian,” 
as young psychoanalysts would term him. 

A man’s character may also be revealed, although 
he is at no time introduced in the story, by the influence 
he has upon those who play the important roles of the 
narrative. 

The foregoing is a fairly comprehensive synopsis of 
the various fictional methods which may be used to 
reveal character. Most authors employ more than one 
of them ; all may well be used. 

Once a character has been made vivid to the reader, 
the simple device of repetition maintains the sharpness, 
as for instance in one of Anton Chekhov’s stories, 
where the hero’s dialogue is constantly marked by his 
penchant for rhyming meaningless words. 

If a character has some distinguishing feature, as a 
crooked nose, it may be well to make the most of the 
characteristic. The man can be kept clear by varying 
the reference to him from, say, “John went out,” to 
“The man with the crooked nose went out.” 

Variety may be obtained in repetition by compari¬ 
sons, as, “John’s scheme was unquestionably crooked, 
as obviously so as his nose”; and by the dialogue of 
other characters, as “ 'Here conies an honest man,’ said 

[57] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


Bert, ‘with a straight face—and a crooked nose, which 
belies his honesty.’ ” 

The author should learn to use his judgment so that 
he will be able to employ this legitimate device and yet 
not abuse it. Aldous Huxley makes use of this tech¬ 
nicality in a very effective manner in his novel, “Crome 
Yellow,” to which the student may refer. 

So far this chapter has concerned itself with the 
methods of revealing character. A man reveals himself 
in a multitude of ways, so you have practically no limit 
of sources. How well you will be able to draw from 
them must remain your problem, its solution depend¬ 
ing upon your native ability and the degree of under¬ 
standing you have attained. 

How actually to build up a character and make of 
him a figure, living and moving, is something beyond 
teaching. Study people consciously, noting their 
appearances, mannerisms, clothes, speech, general be¬ 
havior, and probe all to determine their thoughts. 

If you go into a barber-shop, notice how one man 
methodically removes his collar and tie, carefully takes 
off his coat, pats it, and hangs it up by the loop intended 
for that use. Another jerks off his collar, struggles 
out of his coat, and claps it onto the nearest hanger. 
And if you would write stories above the average, find 
out why one man is methodical and another is careless; 
why one woman is neat and another is slovenly; why 
a man may be jolly in a crowd, yet is morose when 
alone. So on ad infinitum. 

There are doubtless physical reasons for many indi¬ 
vidual characteristics, but there is also a psychological 
reason. If you are not mentally inquisitive, if you do 

[58] 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 

not observe keenly, if you cannot become aware of 
emotional differences in individuals, your characteriza¬ 
tion will never achieve more than mere generalization. 

Good reading will help. Analysis of yourself, espe¬ 
cially of the stimuli that motivate your actions and of 
the manner in which you react to them, will prove in¬ 
valuable as self-instruction in the art of characteriza¬ 
tion. 

Study the faces of people you see in the street; peer 
into their eyes and try to read what is hidden there. 
If you are good at mimicking, imitate the expressions 
you see on faces; note the feelings aroused within you 
by your play-acting, and you may become an adept at 
reading people's emotions and thoughts from their ex¬ 
pressions. Remember how you mirrored hate, scorn, 
surprise, and other emotions, and you will know how 
to describe your characters when you want to reveal 
them expressing these feelings. To make characteriza¬ 
tion convincing and distinctive, you must be able to 
reveal to the reader the individual manner in which 
each of your characters expresses emotion. Begin to 
observe your friends more closely, and as an experiment 
see how each one reveals joy otherwise than by speech. 
And learn the differences in their verbal expression, 
too! 

No rule can be given that will enable you to realize 
your characters. Some authors live in imagination the 
lives of their characters; some write biographies of 
their casts; others try their characters in various situa¬ 
tions in order to get a complete understanding of them. 
But each writer must choose his own method. 

All men and women are suitable persons for stories. 

[59] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

The more conventional they are the more they will 
appeal to the conservative magazines. On the other 
hand, the more individual, and if necessary, the more 
unconventional you make your characters, the more 
will your story appeal to another class of publication. 

No legitimate restrictions exist. You may write 
about the laborer who toils and sweats, the harlot who 
knows no other life and doesn't care to change her 
ways, the business man who is willing to succeed by 
unfair means, the minister who is not so spiritual as 
his congregation believes him to be. In the enormous 
crowds that swarm the streets of cities when the 
offices close for the evening are thousands of persons 
each one of whom has a life-story; the drab laborious 
lives of isolated farmers have their stories, too; no one 
lives so prosaically that the capable writer may not find 
superior material in his existence for a story. 

Whether a writer should try to characterize the peo¬ 
ple of a story is a question which apparently demands 
a ready answer in the affirmative. Yet the present-day 
market demand has a word to say. Many editors are 
not interested in characterization; they want story 
people simply to be doing something interesting, taking 
part in an adventure or escapade. It matters not what 
they think, or that the reader may be able to recognize 
them on the street. And some editors, who profess a 
desire for incidental characterization (action to be para¬ 
mount), are satisfied with mere type indications such 
as these: 

“He-man,” red-blooded, courageous in the face of 
the most preposterous dangers, almost superhumanly 
strong. 


[60] 


SYNTHETIC CHARACTERIZATION 


Flapper, nose-powdering, bob-haired young woman 
who uses the latest slang and has a care-free, some¬ 
what disrespectful manner. 

Business man, forceful, good judge of character, 
able to put through a deal under difficulties, shrewd 
and quick. 

Ambitious woman, cunning, capable of outwitting 
even a level-headed man, versed in the art of flattery, 
persistent to a fault. 

And so may be devised all the well-known general 
types of persons who are frequently met with in 
stories and movies. Individual differences that make 
one “he-man,” flapper, or business man stand out from 
another of the same class are of little consequence, and 
it matters not that this type classification may greatly 
exaggerate the flesh-and-blood prototype. 

However, if you are not writing the easiest story 
that will get by some editor, characterization is of para¬ 
mount importance. What matters it, after all, about 
the action? It is the creation of living characters that 
is the magic of fiction. Shakespeare, Dickens, and all 
the great writers live mainly because they brought to 
life people whom in some cases we know much better 
than we know our best friends. 

What a thrilling thing it is to give breath and warm 
blood to a man made of words! Hardy has created 
the simple farm folk of the English heath; Stendahl 
made royal persons; de Maupassant peopled a French 
boulevard; Thackeray has given us living replicas of 
everyday persons. 

A good market exists for stories based upon real 
characterizations, although some of them will not go 

[61] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

beyond the conventional explorations of the basis of 
character. But good characterization requires a great 
deal of time and unceasing effort ; perhaps the pay is 
not commensurate with the energy expended, but 
should that make any difference to him who is blessed 
with the ability to create life? 


[62] 


CHAPTER VII 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 

T HE writer needs to pay conscious attention to the 
motives he attributes to the actions of his charac¬ 
ters—more, perhaps, than to any other thing in fiction¬ 
writing. As long as characters act naturally and action 
follows action in a convincing manner, whatever the 
story may be it is almost sure to have a positive measure 
of interest. 

And yet it seems that the average writer errs more in 
his handling of motives than a normal-minded person 
would be expected to do. I believe that the principal 
trouble in this case is not the moron intelligence of the 
author, but an easy-going or fuddled attitude toward 
the story that is being written. The writer is often 
misled into acceptance of some standard fictional motive 
rather than questioning the motive and determining for 
himself whether or not it is logical. 

A common case in point, especially in loosely con¬ 
structed stage plays, is the lost letter or important 
paper. A character receives a message of the greatest 
importance, then a new interest diverts the character’s 
attention and he hastily stuffs the message in his pocket 
or elsewhere apparently in order that he will be certain 
to lose it. Think a moment. If you were similarly 
placed, don’t you believe you would take every precau¬ 
tion to safeguard such a message—especially if you had 

[63] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


reason to suspect someone of trying to get it from 
you? 

Laziness, perhaps, more than a lack of conscious ap¬ 
plication, is responsible for much loose motivation. But 
then, the writer needs to become aware that he is lazy; 
if that does not arouse his energy, and set him to work 
with renewed attention and application, he may as well 
quit writing altogether. 

I suppose every writer has at some time shown his 
story to a critic or to a discerning friend and has been 
asked: “But why did your character do that?” And 
then the author seriously asks himself, “Why?” And 
perhaps for the first time he realizes that although he 
may have explained the character’s action, it was not 
a thoughtful explanation. You are fortunate, after a 
fashion, if you have an ever-ready critic to do your 
thinking for you; it is almost as good as being an 
author by proxy. 

Mental obscurity or mental incapacity is the only 
excuse for poor motivation for the writer who has had 
sufficient experience to enable him to write at all. 
Mental obscurity can be cleared up by conscious appli¬ 
cation to what is written. Of course the incapable 
writer, or one with an unusually limited experience in 
life, may not know what constitutes a logical motive 
for a given action. I can only say that the writer who 
cannot become aware of the true—or generally true— 
meaning behind an act would better leave fiction writ¬ 
ing alone. 

I have criticized a great many stories and have been 
frequently amazed at the puerile motivations of would- 
be authors. In some cases, it is true, the reason for 

[64] 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 


apparently imbecile explanations of actions is so deeply 
grounded in the unconscious mind of the author that a 
psychoanalyst would be needed to bring it to his con¬ 
sciousness. If the writer’s complexes and inhibitions 
are responsible for his weaknesses in writing, he can 
determine this to some degree by reading books on 
abnormal psychology and on psychonanalysis, and by 
comparing his stories with printed ones. If he has 
developed keenness of observation so as to discover 
native weaknesses that limit his endeavors there may be 
reasonable hope for his success in writing, provided 
that he has normal intelligence and “the smallest gifts.” 

However, in most cases of weak motivation, the 
trouble lies simply in the author’s slipshod way of 
thinking. Coincidence, failure to co-ordinate charac¬ 
terization, and fallacious reasoning, are oftenest the 
causes of poor motivation. 

In a story of his a writer tells of a young boy who 
sees for the first time a huge circus poster displaying 
a herd of performing elephants. He yearns to go to 
the circus and see a real live elephant, but he knows his 
father would not countenance the idea, let alone give 
him the money for such a purpose. If you were the 
boy in question how do you suppose you would realize 
your desire ? It is likely, perhaps, that in the circum¬ 
stances you would have to wait until you grew con¬ 
siderably older. But you could write to a relative or 
friend to come and take you. Small hope in that, 
if your parents objected, and in case of the poor little 
boy, he had no relatives except his parents, and his 
friends were simple working-men at a log camp miles 
from the town. The problem is difficult, for this author 

[65] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


wants the story to end happily. Well, there is no use 
in thinking too hard; the boy might find a pocketbook 
stuffed with bills and return it to the owner, who might 
reward him by prevailing upon the father to let him 
take the youngster to the circus. So, dear reader, the 
author says in effect, don’t worry about your troubles; 
fortuitous circumstances and coincidences will solve 
them. 

Another writer has an idea for a story. It would be 
interesting if a young man and a young woman, not 
acquainted with each other, were kidnapped and kept 
prisoners in a mansion where every luxury was fur¬ 
nished them, to see if they would mutually fall in love 
there. It offers possibilities. But such a scheme needs 
to be explained somehow, for kidnapping escapades of 
that kind are not performed every day for experimental 
purposes. Ah, he has it! The fathers of the young 
people want them to marry, and so this method is em¬ 
ployed under romantic circumstances to bring them 
together and encourage them to fall in love. 

The fathers are described as astute, level-headed 
business men, but to the author there was apparently no 
lack of co-ordination of characterization to show the 
two gentlemen carrying out a maniacal scheme such as 
the men in question would never do in real life. Moti¬ 
vation is attained, and there is no use to bother one’s 
head with such baffling questions as “Why didn’t the 
fathers introduce the young people first to see if they 
wouldn’t fall in love anyway?” “Why didn’t the 
fathers invite the young people to go on a yachting trip 
or to join a hunting party, so that they would be much 
thrown together in a sane manner ?” “Why should the 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 

fathers guard against possible opposition in such a 
melodramatic manner when it was likely that the two 
young people would naturally fall in love if they were 
to love each other at all?” 

Mystery is absolutely essential in a detective story, 
and another writer fuddles his mind so that he can make 
mystery. The coroner and the sheriff are called to a 
home where a man has been murdered. The manner 
of committing the crime is not known by these of¬ 
ficials. A maid is forced to say something about a 
peculiarly shaped vase which the sheriff looks into, 
but he finds nothing. Mystery piles on mystery. The 
hero-detective is eventually called and at once all be¬ 
comes clear. He finds a hatpin in the room where the 
crime was committed and discovers a small round 
wound on the dead man’s body just above the heart. 
The hatpin had been driven into the man’s heart and 
he was thus killed. The detective questions the maid 
and also elicits an unguarded comment concerning the 
vase, which leads him to pick it up, note that it is heavy 
and that it apparently has a false bottom. Within are 
the jewels belonging to the murdered man. The maid 
confesses complicity in the crime. The murderer was 
frightened off before he was able to steal the jewels, 
but she was supposed to bring them to him after the 
excitement calmed down. She was the only other per¬ 
son who knew where the jewels were hidden. 

Clever solution, is it not? And readers should not 
ask such unnecessary questions as “Why didn’t the 
coroner, an experienced physician and skilled in crim¬ 
inal cases, discover the wound above the heart?” “Why 
didn’t the sheriff, also practiced in criminal cases, make 

[67] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


a careful search of the room and find the hatpin lying 
under the couch?” “Why didn’t the sheriff have 
enough sense to test the vase for a false bottom?” 
“Why did the maid, who was a clever criminal, twice 
permit herself to make a most incriminating break?” 
Yes, why should they let things go as they did? But 
this is the author’s mystery story, not the reader’s. 

Whatever kind of story one is writing, or whatever 
market he hopes to reach, it is obvious that motivation 
should be broadly logical. In the preceding chapter on 
characterization we found that two general methods 
obtain, according to the type of magazine, one con¬ 
ventional and the other unconventional. And so it is in 
motivation. The writer needs to become aware of both 
so that he can restrict or give free play to his motiva¬ 
tion, depending upon the nature of his stories. 

There is one type of editor connected with the pub¬ 
lishing of popular family journals who has strict 
standards upon which all motivation should be based, 
just as it was shown that some editors require certain 
characteristics to differentiate various types of persons, 
as the hero, villain, business man and so on. This 
editor professes to believe that all good women are 
seraphically virtuous and all others desire to be; that 
heroes of stories are respecters of all woman-kind, and 
that they are unflinchingly courageous: therefore, 
heroes and heroines of stories should be motivated by 
these ideals. An editor of a widely read men’s maga¬ 
zine once objected to an adventure story because it in¬ 
cidentally told of a woman who rouged and powdered 
profusely in order to inveigle the villain into a trap. 

Motivation based upon such ideas is supposed to 

[68] 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 


reveal that this is the best of all possible worlds and 
that men were born good and are evil only because of 
a temporary affliction, as a healthy man sometimes 
catches cold. Thus the happy ending, the goodness 
unchanging, and the reform of the wicked characters 
at the end of the tale, are properly motivated. 

But sometimes a writer questions the basis for such 
motivation. Theodore Dreiser has been an American 
literary pioneer in this regard. While yet a reporter 
on a metropolitan daily he saw many instances of sordid 
misery from which honorable escape was well-nigh im¬ 
possible; he came in contact with successful business 
men who amassed fortunes through bribery, political 
machinations, and underhanded schemes; he met loyal 
wives who loved their husbands, yet were not temper¬ 
amentally compatible with them, and who resorted to 
accepting lovers in the futile hope of retaliating against 
their mates. The world that he saw did not jibe with 
the world as it was supposed to be in the fiction of the 
day; and so he decided to write of life as he had seen 
it, omitting nothing that he believed to be true. 

The writer who thinks may well question the basis 
of many of the popular motivations. A red-blooded 
man is supposed to act with courage and unselfishness 
in all cases. In a typical New York crowd waiting at 
a local subway station, there may be supposed to be 
many men of this kind. Suppose that around a curve 
can be seen the lights of an approaching express train, 
gaining speed as it is about to dash past the station. A 
child or a woman falls from the platform upon the 
track. A moment only is granted to save her. How 
many men would face almost certain death from the 

[69] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


electrically charged third rail and the approaching 
train to save a person unknown to them ? Perhaps fear 
of his own death would outweigh the thought of the 
life imperiled. Would any man in such a contingency 
be proclaimed a coward? 

Men are supposed to be courteous to women—espe¬ 
cially soldiers and cowboys. Was not Wyoming, the 
cowboy state, the first in the Union to vote for woman 
suffrage? A friend told me of an incident that he 
witnessed on a train. It was the Fourth of July and 
the train was on its way to Denver from a southern 
Colorado town. The coaches were filled as is usual on 
holidays, so in order to get a seat a number of women 
were forced to sit in the smoking car. Among them 
were white-haired women and, as a few editors would 
sentimentally declare, some persons’ sweet mothers. 

The cowpunchers in the smoker were having a jolly 
time and were celebrating in the red-blooded American 
way with firecrackers of the loud-noise variety. The 
fun became intensified as they began throwing fire¬ 
crackers about the coach, making the passengers jump 
with fear. In a rear seat were sitting two officers of 
the United States Army, enjoying the hilarity. The 
cowboys now concentrated their attention on the timid 
people in the car in order to get a bigger “kick” out of 
their fun. Many firecrackers began bursting around 
the white-haired mothers. They appealed to the 
conductor, but he measured the six feet of muscle of 
the nearest cowboy, thought of his own rotund softness, 
then winked at the grinning men of the range and went 
out of the car smiling. The army officers smoked and 
laughed. The fun continued. My friend boiled with 

[70] 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 


impotent anger. He resented the actions of the men in 
the car; he is not an outdoor man, and is small and frail. 
He hid his head in shame. What could he try to do? 
He had not even a better seat to offer the women. 

These examples must make clear to the reader that 
type motivations do not always hold good in life. Cow¬ 
boys, sailors, business men, all are only men in various 
occupations, and they are motivated by whatever has 
motivated men from the time that they lifted their 
heads from the dirt and began walking erect. Men may 
be swayed by lofty aims one day, and the very next day 
be caught in an atavistic relapse: just as a country may 
one day be an exponent of peace at any price, and the 
following day become lustful for the blood and utter 
destruction of an enemy. 

If you are eager to write stories that are reflective 
of the life about you, life as it exists, do not blind your¬ 
self to the complexity of motives that guide the actions 
of men. The most honorable man may at some time 
resort to crime; the purest woman, impelled by love, 
may become an adultress; the Bolshevik, the Radical, 
the Socialist, may be suffering from a vicious propa¬ 
ganda, though they are really trying to force upon a 
stubborn world what is best for it; school-teachers, 
ministers, senators, philanthropists, may be malignantly 
distorting the whole truth or presenting only one phase 
to further some general selfish economic scheme. I am 
not' saying whether any of these stand for what is true 
—it is of no consequence here—but I am saying that 
men are men, no matter what their professions or posi¬ 
tions may be. And they are all motivated, according to 

[ 71 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

their heritage and their education, by whatever has 
motivated every man since the day of his creation. 

This chapter has dealt so far with the motivation of 
a character’s actions. A larger motivation exists in 
fiction, that of incident. The conscious observer has 
learned that one thing happens because something pre¬ 
ceding it took place. Joseph Conrad in his excellent 
short-story, '‘Youth,” tells of the trials of an old freight 
ship sailing for Bangkok. The boat springs several 
leaks and the cargo of coal in the hold gets wet; because 
of the wetting, the coal is set afire by spontaneous com¬ 
bustion, and eventually the fire forces the men to leave 
the ship. Result succeeds cause; and so it is in the 
larger movements of life. 

Victor Hugo and Thomas Hardy use exceeding care 
in establishing the motives for action, thus giving to 
their novels the feeling of the inexorable movement of 
life itself. A single phase from Hugo’s “L’Homme 
Qui Rit” will illustrate: 

Barkilphedro, by subtle means, gets Queen Anne to 
appoint him Clerk to the Admiralty; because he secures 
this position, he is the one who receives a bottle washed 
ashore from the sea containing information to show 
that Gwynplaine is really the Duke of Clancharlie; be¬ 
cause he has this information, he is able to gain his 
revenge against Duchess Josina, for she will have to 
give up her lands and castles to Gwynplaine, the right¬ 
ful heir. 1 

Back of this episode is a still more complex moti¬ 
vation which has made it possible. Ursus, the Philoso¬ 
pher, saves the boy Gwynplaine; because he does this 
the boy finds a place in his foster-father’s troupe as 

[ 72 ] 


FIXING THE BASIS OF ACTION 


comedian; because his face was distorted into a comic 
grin he makes a great success as a mountebank; be¬ 
cause of this success he is brought to London, and be¬ 
cause he is brought there Barkilphedro is able to find 
him. Barkilphedro’s part in the drama is also carefully 
accounted for by relating what causes him to hate the 
Duchess and how circumstances make it possible for 
him to plan and execute his revenge against her. Thus 
Barkilphedro is the agent which unites the two threads 
of the story which from the very first had been con¬ 
verging with the inevitability of fate. 

In a short-story, motivation of incident seldom needs 
to be so complex as this, but if the author is aware of 
the process by which he brings characters together and 
relates action with action, he will not fall into the 
slough of coincidence or faulty reasoning. 


[ 73 ] 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE FINAL PUNCH 

L IFE is a subtle force that now and then flares up 
like a blaze in a dark night, revealing some inner 
meaning. Man becomes inured to everyday phenom¬ 
ena ; the mighty spectacle of a star-filled sky excites no 
wonder. But man in his great restlessness is ever seek¬ 
ing change, the startling, the unexpected. Ordinary 
men seek sensation in the various cheap sensational 
offerings of today; cultivated men look for the flash 
in the dark that affords the more profound, electric 
sensation. 

This lure of the unexpected finds two similar ex¬ 
pressions in fiction-writing. In both cases it is a little 
more than a device, something more vital to the theme 
than mere mechanics. The writer should become thor¬ 
oughly conscious of its value, its application, and its 
power. 

The lure of the unexpected is known in writing 
under various names: surprise, “kick,” novelty, dy¬ 
namic conclusion, punch. The application of punch to 
short-story endings was popularized by O. Henry, who 
employed the trick twist much in the manner of a 
magician who first convinces his audience that the silk 
hat is empty and then takes from it a rabbit, a hen, 
ribbons, and what not. 

That is one phase of the punch ending, the most 
mechanical; it can be fitted on to any cleverly worked- 

[ 74 ] 


THE FINAL PUNCH 


out story. But punch finds expression in more than 
this device; it may be said to be that force, expressed 
through description, dialogue, or action, which surprises 
or arouses the reader. It is opposed to the tranquil 
ending, or to any ending after which the reader may 
say, as following the solution of a geometrical problem, 
Quod erat demonstrandum. 

Punch is not something restricted to the ending. It 
is a desirable quality throughout the narrative. It may 
be produced by queerly turned phrases, by incongruous 
figuration, by unique style, by unexpected incidents, by 
unusual characterization and dialogue. 

In this book, however, only the final punch is to be 
considered. At this point it is most effectively used, 
for it heightens the total impression of the story. It 
intensifies the emotion aroused or increases the feeling 
of enjoyment. By becoming aware of its power in this 
instance you should have no trouble realizing the value 
of punch elsewhere. This chapter, as the others, gives 
you an intensive study of an important phase of writ¬ 
ing. What it will mean to you depends upon what you 
can bring to it. The “final punch” is up to you. 

The popularity of epigrams, jokes, proverbs, and 
verses that depend largely for their effect upon the 
final lines, reveals the charm of final punch. Note the 
effect of the postscript in this excellent example of final 
punch taken from Dreiser’s “The 'Genius.’ ” 

“Dear Eugene: I got your note several weeks ago, 
but I couldn’t bring myself to answer it before this. I 
know everything is over between us and that is all right 
I suppose. It has to be. You couldn’t love any woman 

[75] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


long, I think. I know what you say about having to go 
to New York to broaden your field is true. You ought 
to, but I’m sorry you didn’t come out. I have cared, 
but I’ll get over that,, I know, and I won’t ever think 
hard of you.—Ruby.” 

“I stood by the window last night and looked out in 
the street. The moon was shining and those dead trees 
were waving in the wind. I saw the moon on that pool 
of water over in the field. It looked like silver. Oh, 
Eugene, I wish I were dead.” 

Punch endings are secured by three general methods. 
They may be classified as: 

Endings contrary to desire. 

Peculiar revelations—of character, idea, etc. 

Trick endings. 

The ending contrary to desire nearly always involves 
unhappy features. It usually deals with a study of 
character. The reader’s interest is aroused in a char¬ 
acter who is striving to overcome some obstacle or to 
attain some goal. If the author makes it appear that 
success is coming and leads his readers urgently to 
want that success, failure comes as a distinct shock. 

John Dos Passos developed an effective ending of 
this sort in his powerful novel, “The Three Soldiers.” 
Toward the last of the book John Andrews is shown 
apparently secure in his freedom after having deserted 
from the army in order to write music and escape from 
an unbearable environment. The sympathetic reader 
hopes that Andrews will never be taken. The last 
page shows Andrews arrested by the military police. 

[76] 


THE FINAL PUNCH 

This ending has punch. Its influence is felt long after 
the book is laid aside; there is in it a tragedy deeper 
than death. 

Another form of ending contrary to desire is one that 
simply leaves the situation unchanged. This ending is 
common to many of the modern realistic stories. Read¬ 
ers have been so “fed up” on stories of the “and-they- 
lived-happily-ever-after” type that they have come to 
expect a similar solution to every problem. A well- 
developed story of realism which shows that a desired 
change in the relations or destinies of the characters is 
improbable achieves a decided punch. 

This kind of ending is satisfactorily employed by 
Michael Gold in his story, “The Password to Thought 
—to Culture” (Liberator). The story is of David 
Brandt, a factory worker, who yearns for a more 
enlightened environment. His surroundings are op¬ 
pressive and there is little hope for escape. The final 
paragraphs are: 

“ ‘Go out; put on your hat and coat and go!” 

“ ‘But I want to read!’ 

“ ‘You .won’t! I won't let you. I should drop dead 
if I let you!’ 

“David stared wrathfully at her for a moment, stung 
into anger by her presumptuous meddling into affairs 
beyond her world of illiteracy and hope. He was about 
to speak sharply to her, but changed his mind with a 
weary shrug of his shoulders. He put on his hat and 
coat and wandered aimlessly into the East Side night, 
not in obedience to his mother, but because it was 

[ 77 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 

easier than to sit here under the impending flow of her 
nightly exhortations/’ 

Stories of character, mood or idea often gain an 
added effect or punch following the climax by a new 
revelation of character or idea that seems to illuminate 
or emphasize that which has gone before. Such a 
revelation has dynamic force, for it hammers home a 
final impresssion by contrast, repetition, or similar de¬ 
vice. It often has no essential relationship to the 
climax. It is like a punch in the stomach after the 
knockout uppercut has been struck. 

J. D. Beresford employed this type of ending for a 
peculiar story, “Powers of the Air” (The Seven Arts). 
He tells about a unique character who warns a young 
man not to go to the cliffs in a storm because of the 
mysterious powers of the air. But despite his pleadings 
the young man goes, and he waits, almost eagerly, to 
witness the tragic proof of his warnings. But the 
young man returns and on his boyish face is an expres¬ 
sion of triumph and superiority. The final paragraphs 
are: 

“He stood in the doorway, braced by his struggle 
with the wind; and his young eyes were glowing with 
the consciousness of discovery and new knowledge. 

“Yet he cannot deny that I showed him the way.” 

Trick endings are those brought about by a conscious 
attempt on the part of the author to lead the reader to 
expect a certain ending entirely different from that 
which is actually employed. This may be accomplished 


THE FINAL PUNCH 

in various ways, but in general, trick-ending stories are 
of three kinds. 

Unexpected explanation of an event. The formula 
is: A series of events to some extent familiar to the 
reader, suddenly revealed as having an entirely un¬ 
expected significance. An excellent example is “The 
Great Cipher,” by Melville Davisson Post (The Red 
Book). The narrator tells of a diary kept by an ex¬ 
plorer who died in an African jungle. Apparently the 
writer was demented. He told of human creatures with 
invisible bodies, of a strange malady, of pygmy savages. 
At the last the narrator reveals that the dairy is not 
an actual account of a trip, but a cipher message accus¬ 
ing the two white men accompanying the explorer of a 
plan to murder him. 

Concealing intended solution behind an apparently 
limited choice of actions. The formula for this type 
is a situation presenting two or more possible courses of 
action which are kept prominently before the reader, 
whereas the intended outcome is held in the back¬ 
ground, to be “sprung” at the close of the story. Many 
detective stories follow a formula similar to this, lead¬ 
ing the reader to believe that the guilt lies between 
certain characters who are under suspicion, but finally 
fixing it upon another character who was apparently 
not connected with the crime. “The Obligations of Win 
Foo,” by Robert E. Hewes (Brief Stories), prepares 
thus for such an ending. Win Foo is hired by each of 
two business rivals to kill the other. Of course they do 
not know of Win’s double employment. Win Foo 
puzzles long over which duty he should fulfill, and seeks 

[ 79 ] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


the aid of sages. He finally solves the problem unex¬ 
pectedly in his own way by killing both men. 

A contrasting final incident. This type is one of 
the most interesting and follows this plan: An initial 
incident is developed which leads the reader to expect a 
certain course of action. In the final incident the lead¬ 
ing character does something directly opposite. 

“Conscience/’ a short-story by Phillip E. Stevenson 
(Brief Stories ), has a clever ending of this type. Wat¬ 
son is revealed as a man of conscience. A friend comes 
to his office and breaks the news that Watson’s wife has 
run away with another man. Watson is evidently 
greatly shocked, beaten. The friend is afraid he will 
commit suicide, but Watson hurries him off. Then he 
grabs the telephone and calls a number. He tells the 
woman at the other end of the wire that his wife has 
left him. His conscience is clear now. They can go 
away together. 

Although trick-ending stories are in a measure me¬ 
chanical, the final punch is not something tacked on, 
but, as has been seen, is a result of careful and skillful 
planning, to lead up to the punch at the end. 

The author must understand the character of his 
story and write a punch ending only because it is a 
logical development, not merely because it is sometimes 
an effective device. 

The final punch is an artistic achievement, and au¬ 
thors should not permit it to degenerate into anything 
less than that. It should be plain and poignant. It 
impresses, for it is a flash of light in the dark. Often 
it is a brief summary of a human experience. 


[80] 


CHAPTER IX 


WRITING THE STORY 
CQUIRING technique is, after all, not the writer’s 



most important task; for, once he has become 
aware of the general technical structure of the short- 
story, he should let it repose in his foreconscious mind. 
It is no longer a matter of importance to the author, 
and the less it obtrudes itself the better is his work 
likely to be, no matter for what market he may be 
writing. 

The principal thing while writing your story is to be 
vitally interested in it. It is almost impossible to have 
a story flow spontaneously and attractively unless you 
feel some definite part of what you write. You may 
get an idea which appeals to you as a good one for a 
story—a person you chance to meet may seem an un¬ 
usual fiction prototype,or an incident from real life may 
perhaps be a story itself; but of what fiction value to 
you are these things unless they have gripped your 
interest and you feel an urge to write about them? 

The point from which the author should begin his 
story may well be the particular phase of the narrative 
that most interests him. It may be a character, a 
setting, the expounding of an idea, or merely an inci¬ 
dent. Begin from this one point and work out your 
story. Whether the story will be unusual or common¬ 
place depends upon your ability, how much you have 


[81] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


learned about the craftsmanship of writing, and upon 
the extent of your conscious development. 

We can take a setting and show how two authors of 
different qualifications might develop a story from it. 
The setting is an isolated railroad station situated in 
the Rocky Mountains, miles from a town. 

One author may be interested in the mood of lone¬ 
liness which the station awakens. The hills of stone 
towering above the little wooden structure, the un¬ 
broken silence, gnarled pine trees made restless by un¬ 
ceasing winds—these all affect him; and as night falls 
a dark blanket is dropped over all. The little station 
seems to draw itself closer together about the yellow 
light over the stationmaster’s desk. But as yet we have 
no story, no situation. The story will be simple, but 
we are presenting a phase of life that we hope will be 
in some measure illuminative of life itself. 

We need here the human element; and for our situa¬ 
tion is needed the grouping together of antagonistic 
elements. The stationmaster feels the intense loneli¬ 
ness of his position. How can he overcome this feel¬ 
ing? 

The man has heard that some of the isolated moun¬ 
tain stations have been robbed of their meager valu¬ 
ables. The robbers are still at large and are supposed 
to be in his vicinity. As night advances the loneliness 
becomes more intense. The weather is cloudy and cold, 
the wind increases, noises sound, the more startling for 
the silence in the vast reaches of the mountains. The 
lonely man has no one to talk to. He listlessly toys 
with his work. He dreams of past days with friends, 
of his boyish ambition to be a fireman, a pirate—always 

[82] 


WRITING THE STORY 


of something calling for action. Perhaps tonight the 
robbers will attack him. The passenger train soon due 
is carrying much valuable express, he has learned. 
Maybe the robbers will try to hold it up. The station- 
master takes out his gun and examines it; he is almost 
happy in the hope of some action that may make it 
necessary. He tjiust throw the switch to let the train 
go by as it does not stop tonight at his station. He 
opens the door, revolver and lantern in hand. Pitch 
dark. The wind has died down again. The toot of 
the approaching engine sounds like a wail. The feeble 
light of the man’s lantern shines on his weapon and 
casts a faint gleam upon the steel rails. Nothing seems 
very real except the darkness and his loneliness. He 
goes out and throws the switch and starts back for the 
station, suddenly reminded that no robbers had mo¬ 
lested him. No one is in the little building. The long 
express train sweeps past with a stream of blurry 
lights. Sounds, growing fainter and fainter. Then 
deep silence again. Lord, the gnawing loneliness of 
the place! 

And so the story ends. It could be made a gripping, 
tense thing; yet there is almost no action, such action 
as editors of the general magazines require. A mood 
is built up which clearly reveals the stationmaster’s 
feelings and suggests his character. On the other hand 
the same setting could be used as a starting point for 
a plot story. 

As the stationmaster goes to throw the switch outside 
his lonely station he is commanded to hold up his hands. 
Three armed and masked men face him and he is com¬ 
manded to keep away from the switch. Unless he can 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


outwit the robbers the train will be derailed as it is 
forced to make an unexpected sharp turn onto the spur 
track. “Drop your gat and keep your hands up,” com¬ 
mands one of the masked men. 

The stationmaster acts quickly; dropping his lantern, 
lie gets his gun into play. He gains an advantage, but 
a bullet shot into his leg brings him down. From the 
distance sounds the whistle of the oncoming train. The 
stationmaster crawls on his belly, army-fashion, toward 
the switch. He has his key ready to unfasten the lock. 
Just at the switch he engages in a hand-to-hand com¬ 
bat with a robber he had wounded slightly. The time 
to save the train narrows to seconds. A quick blow, 
recovery of his pistol in time, and the switch is thrown. 
The train dashes safely by the station and the station- 
master takes stock of his prisoners. 

Here the principal purpose was to crowd as much 
action as was logical into the development. The story 
is definitely fashioned to meet a certain market require¬ 
ment. The narrative begins with action and a dilemma, 
moving swiftly to a crisis, the stationmaster’s injury. 
But this leads to a new action in which the hero con¬ 
tinues to try to solve his problem. Then the fast strug¬ 
gle, accomplishment of purpose, and we have a thrilling 
climax—just in time! There is considerable suspense, 
but no provision is made for characterization or de¬ 
scription except as incidental to the action. 

The two developments outlined in the foregoing 
paragraphs are not intended to present an abysmal con¬ 
trast. In fact, the two types may merge so that there 
will be but little difference in their literary value. The 
action story may be as finished a work of art as may 

[84] 


WRITING THE STORY 


any other kind; it is only when a story is mechanically 
devised, deprived of all possible beauty by complete 
neglect of characterization, style and description, and 
when from it is meticulously removed every thought 
that may run counter to some popular or editorial con¬ 
viction, that it becomes a mere literary concoction. A 
story which is flagrantly radical, on the other hand, 
does not indicate literary merit. 

“Grammar, rhetoric, metrics, technique—these have 
been the indispensable tools of our writers. They still 
are. But having acquired them our writers find they 
can fashion nothing beautiful, nothing lasting, nothing 
that will weather the storms of time. For no tools can 
accomplish the feat of fashioning something out of 
nothing. ,, This statement of N. Bryllion Fagin’s 
(“Short-Story Writing”) is true, but the writer who 
is able to devise any story that is good enough to be 
printed is not fashioning something out of nothing even 
though he has little more to work with than “the indis¬ 
pensable tools” and his imagination. It is also true that 
many a writer has no desire to create fiction that will 
“weather the storms of time,” and there is no reason 
why he should have such a desire if he has had the 
matter out with himself and has clearly decided upon 
the course he is to follow. 

In writing a story, however, give the best you have. 
Be prepared for your task by having mastered the 
technique of your medium and by keeping a clear mind. 
Try to feel what you write, laugh and suffer and curse 
and love with your characters. Setting, characters and 
incidents of any kind have an emotional context, or the 
observer reads one into them. The extent to which you 

[85] 


CONSCIOUS SHORT-STORY TECHNIQUE 


can make your descriptions vivid and compelling de¬ 
pends upon the degree in which you feel the emotional 
essence of the thing you are writing about. And the 
more conscious your personal development is, the better 
able you will be to distinguish between sentimentalism 
and a deeper emotion, between the specious and the 
real—and the more will your writing gain thereby. 

Style need not be a matter of conscious effort, for the 
real meaning of style was most aptly put by the French 
naturalist, Buffon, who said, “Style is the man himself.” 
Whatever you are will be reflected in your writing. 
However, it is best to become aware of crudities and 
solecisms, grammar, metrics, rhetoric, etc., which you 
can smooth out in your polishing or revision after the 
initial composition is completed. 

Another matter that concerns some writers while 
fashioning a story is what they shall prove by the story 
or, what moral principle they shall expound. The best 
writers are not concerned with didactics or propaganda. 
The most satisfactory story is a depiction of a bit of 
life, and if that fragment happens to illustrate some 
larger principle of ethics or dogmatics, well and good. 
Still, it is well that the writer who is preparing himself 
to attain publication as quickly and easily as possible 
should know that many magazines want such stories as 
set out to prove that virtue is rewarded, that evil is 
punished, and that existing American systems of edu¬ 
cation, politics, and economics are the best yet de¬ 
veloped. 

The writer who will produce the finest work, how¬ 
ever, is one who will work free from artificial re¬ 
straints, prejudices, or dogmatic requirements. He is 

[86] 


WRITING THE STORY 


the writer who will try to become thoroughly aware, 
intellectually and emotionally, of the forces of life, both 
of thought and action, with which he comes in contact, 
so that he may be able to record them faithfully and 
with understanding. 

Mark Twain, in his preface to “The Adventures of 
Huckleberry Finn,” has suggested the proper limita¬ 
tions of fiction-writing, and also the sensible way of 
reading stories: 

“Persons attempting to find a motive in this narra¬ 
tive will be prosecuted, persons attemping to find a 
moral in it will be banished, persons attempting to find 
a plot in it will be shot. 

“By Order of the Author.” 


[87] 

























































i*»<! It V 



















































































